Thank you.

(picture taken exactly 12 minutes ago)

Almost 14 years ago, I met a boy. Who eventually became my husband.

But 14 years ago, I was pretty immature and naive--and I stumbled upon the most amazing man I will ever know. And I say "stumbled", because I was easily impressed back in those days and satisfied with anyone showing me attention and generally possessing large amounts of confidence.

FYI--confidence, in college boys, is often a disguise for AMAZING immaturity. I like to think of it as the male equivalent of dress-up. Or, in a manner similar to an exotic lizard that uses pretty colors to entice its prey before eating it. Just kidding, I made that lizard stuff up, but it sounds like something I might have seen on National Geographic.

Just kidding, I don't watch National Geographic.

All this to say that I met my husband when we were young, but he was NEVER immature. I had that covered (and then some) for both of us. But he waited patiently for me to understand that happiness does not equal great nights at a bar and sleeping until 2 p.m. When you're 21, you assume the world 1.) notices how *cool* you are, and 2.) is jealous of your awesomeness. Until, of course, you get a clue and realize that normal people think those lifestyle choices are annoying and ridiculous.

Needless to say, I am constantly amazed by my husband, who I don't deserve. We are married because he patiently waited for me to grow up (in some senses, he is STILL waiting)--much as I begged him to just marry me and trust in my fairy godmother to work out the details. I mean, I never used the words "magic" or "fairy godmother" or "pumpkin carriage", but when you advocate that marriage is the way to solve ALL your problems, isn't that really the kind of crazy you are selling?

But almost 14 years after we met, I have a fuller picture of what God placed in my lap. A husband who serves me, constantly. Willingly. He encourages me in all of my hearts desires. He never says no. He isn't impractical or in la-la land (quite the opposite), but he makes everything possible, if it's in his power. He always puts me first. He is a cheerleader of everything I do, even when it takes my time and attention away from him. He is the exact opposite of selfish. He does not do things for me and expect me to return the favor--never in a million years would that be possible. He is one of the most easy-going people you'd ever meet. Legitimately. He's definitely not the type that would act calm and then beat his dog to take out his frustration, is what I'm saying.

I think a lot of people who know Mike think he leads a charmed, easy life. His casualness probably suggests that. Far from it. He works really hard. He doesn't feel entitled to ANYTHING. He doesn't operate based on image or acceptance or appearance. He can be known to worry (secretly), but his attitude, his hope, his confidence, his assurance in Christ--they are truly unmatched.

All this to say THANK YOU to my husband, who selflessly sent me to Florida this weekend (well, starting Wednesday, really), so that I could be with some of my best friends. He put me on a plane happily and willingly--and I know that while I'm gone he will love our children, feed them, read to them AND manage to clean the house in ways I can't even fathom.

Think I am joking or attempting to encourage his home-making skills? Let me just tell you that while I was in Florida last year, he managed to completely potty train Little J.

He knows instinctively how to love and serve me--and he never misses an opportunity. it is humbling and so full of grace that I can hardly believe it. Single-handedly, the reason I know Jesus is because of my husband, who is the hands and feet of Christ, in my life everyday.

Feeling inspired.

I was finishing up a couple of projects yesterday, and happened to notice this thread box sitting on my dining room table. If you wanted to capture an image of something that gets me creatively excited, than look no further. It' just something about the colors and the endless possibilities...

Also, I made a stop at the fabric store last week, and happened to notice that they had a great section of summer-y plaids. Though it wasn't what I was shopping for, who can resist? Particularly when paired with polka dots...

Coincidentally, fabric stores are like kryptonite for me. Oh, the possibilities!!! I currently have at least 2,754, 027 possibilities awaiting me in my basement dungeon. Which means my girls *might* be wearing pillowcase dresses and elastic waist skirts until they are 44.


Anyway. That fun little plaid fabric became a skirt for G...if I haven't mentioned it before, skirts like this are the EASIEST. No pattern necessary, as it is basically two rectangles sewn together...the elastic waist band is what scrunches it all up. And this time, instead of a ruffle at the bottom, I added a band of polka dots to finish off the seams. All done in about an hour.

Look closely, and you will even see that I didn't bother to match up my plaid lines (you are seeing part of the side seam). I could easily take another picture, and you'd never know unless you stared at my daughter's skirt for 5 minutes. And that's weird. Don't do that.

But seeing as this is my blog to air all of my sewing inadequacies and impatient tendencies (Gasp!), you are getting the real me. You're welcome.

And just because I am super generous, here's an up close look at the polka dot band with the plaid. To me, this combo is PERFECTION.

Okay, I have something going on for the rest of this week...details to come later, but let's just say this is a super fun, exciting treat for me, and it involves wine. But! I am starting to think about this sewing night I am going to host on May 13th and just want to throw out there the possibility of making one of these skirts, if pillowcase dresses are not your style. If you've emailed me or called me about it, just know I haven't gotten back to you, because mentally, my brain cannot handle any event that is more than 2 weeks away...that's just how I roll. But, I will be in touch next week and hopefully we can drink some wine and spit some projects out!!!

Later, peeps!

Final thoughts on the massage that has lasted for 12 days.

Okay friends, here you have it...the last of the posts dedicated to the Massage Debacle of '10. Proving, once and for all, that the massage in question has become one of the LEAST RELAXING events of my entire life.

So let's revisit Massage Luxe. Following the angry therapists firing and comment on my blog last Friday, you can imagine I was a *little* irritated. My plan was to go into Massage Luxe--though my husband decided he might be a more peaceful ambassador. Probably smart.

It turns out they are nice people. They had plans to contact me regarding this matter (but were beat to it by the therapist). They were, of course, MORTIFIED, as this situation which escalated as a result of her comment was really not in their best interest. I do believe that they handled it as well as they could have, given that they've never faced this situation before. The timing wasn't good, the fact that they didn't call me FIRST wasn't right, but I do believe they were acting quickly and in the best interests of their business. And I do not fault them.

One of my biggest issues, was that of the therapist being fired over my complaints--without calling and talking to me. It made me feel solely responsible, and very guilty. I believe it's in the best interests of a company to actually TALK to someone who has an issue, and let me state this so that we are all clear--A BLOG IS A STORY, TOLD WITH A VOICE. Sarcasm, on this medium, works for me, and it is how I approach almost every topic on here. So from my standpoint, if you are going to fire someone over my words, you had better call me and get the whole story. And if you are going to fire someone and CITE MY BLOG as the reason, you had better call me and give me a heads up.

But.

There were other issues. Other complaints, more to the story than just this blog. But unfortunately, with all of the proof I provided, I will be the sole reason this therapist thinks she was fired. And, that's fine--because this has been a great lesson for me, in learning that sometimes people will dislike me, regardless of whether I'm at fault or not. The truth of it is, I go through life as if NOTHING is ever my fault, because there is an excuse for everything. And that's partially true--there is always a reason I act like an a-hole, why I'm in a bad mood, why the world is out to irritate me. It's NEVER my fault. Except, mostly it is. And as previously stated, there is a lot I didn't do right in this situation, and I had a good part to do in her firing. I stand by that.

But I am not the sole reason for it either.

I feel like all three parties involved were acting in our own best interests. And not in a malicious, ill-intentioned way, but rather, as a tactic for surviving life. The therapist talked. I blogged. Massage Luxe took action. That's life.

And I say that without sarcasm, but really, with every ounce of truth. We all live our lives and make the best possible decisions FOR OURSELVES. We get through our days the best way we can, and sometimes, those selfish tendencies have repercussions for others. In her comment, the therapist asked me to consider how my comments have affected her, which UNDOUBTEDLY, they have. But it's a never ending battle. ALL of my words and actions have consequences. I am charged with raising my children, teaching them right from wrong, shaping their character to be honest and loving beings. My days are intentionally structured around tasks designed to do all of those things--and yet, as I've said so many times on this blog--I fail them daily. I fail them because I am selfish and prideful and because of it, I make bad choices on their behalf.

I love them with all of my heart, and yet, their lives will have big consequences because of my failures. Consequences happen, because our world is broken. Period. And my best intentions cannot stop the fact that I will offend, or fail or hurt someone else in my lifetime. Probably tomorrow. I do hate that. I hate my part in it. And I hate that it is the way the entire world exists, but it does.

I can only take responsibility for my words. And I can't say that this wouldn't have played out differently. I can't say that she should have kept her job, even though she needed it. Because that wasn't in Massage Luxe's best interest. And Massage Luxe might be a business, and that might make them seem cold and impersonal, but they are a company that supports a lot of employees. And those employees depend upon happy customers. And I don't believe customers should pay for a service and not be allowed an opinion.

There is what's right for ME. And then there is the bigger picture. I can ask for help and guidance is seeing the bigger picture, in getting over myself, in making better choices, in choosing better words. But at the end of the day, that isn't always going to make others happy either. I don't have that kind of power. Massage Luxe does not have that power. None of us have the power to make up for a really messed up world and all of its faults. Period.

Only Jesus can do that. For me, he is the end of the drama. And the massage debacle, thank God, because I am OVER it.

It's a....

...GIGANTIC pain in the ass.

Let me introduce you to my fifth child, Laundry. We keep him in the basement.



Feeling rather uninspired, so this pic is all you get for the night. It was actually taken months ago and features a happier, cleanlier and more responsible time in our lives. The current laundry pile is consuming the ENTIRE couch and has forced the 6 of us to fend for ourselves on the remaining furniture.

Also. You are all wee-nies for not taking my trivia challenge (not you Missy, you rock).

FREEDOM!

I have never been more excited for a Monday.

Because I have NOTHING to do. No commitments, no deadlines, no huge events that require my attention in any way, what-so-ever.

I mentioned last week that G's school did an impromptu trivia night last night...for which I volunteered to help. And by the grace of God, my part in the event ended up being only the trivia itself. Because there were A LOT of moving parts--and I know with certainty that I can only handle ONE moving part at a time, which renders me somewhat useless, as I have four children and that means I am already 1,000+ parts over my functional limit.

But the questions were okay. And a good mix of moderate to hard, I think. There were only a few challenges to the answer, and only one of them was legit. FYI--Joe Namath wore pantyhose in a Hane's Beautymist commercial in the 1970's. It's WASN'T L'eggs. The Internet doesn't lie, people. That was the one intense moment of the evening, when participants rushed the judges table smelling blood and ready to fillet me with their iphones (SARCASM, in case we haven't established that). I mean, seriously, iphones are very blunt instruments, so please don't take that statement as truth...though, there *may* be an app for human filleting and I am still convinced the iphone is a brain eating organism of some sort. It is true, I cannot live without it, but that is based mostly on fear of what it will do to me if I fight its mind control.

Also learned: Joe Namath in pantyhose makes people CRAZY.

One of our unique rounds included samplings of ten different types of "colas", which the tables ATTEMPTED to correctly identify. This was next to impossible (most got 2-3 correct), with the choices being: Coke, Diet Coke, Pepsi, RC Cola, Diet Cherry Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Mr. Pibb, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, Tab, Diet Rite.

And just for fun. For those of you that weren't there, here is a sampling of 10 questions we used during different rounds...so you can test your trivia skillz:

What is the only country in Asia to list English as its first language?

Who was the first athlete to sign an endorsement contract with Nike?

What famous piece of technology was introduced with a commercial directed by Ridley Scott, during the 1984 Superbowl?

According to the Book of Exodus, what was the first plague to fall on Egypt as a result of Pharaoh's refusal to free the Israelites?

Eclipse, the third movie in the Twilight series, will open in U.S. theatres on what date?

The Iran-Contra affair alleged that money from arms sales to Iran were funding rebel groups in what country?

What was the Jackpot amount for this week's Missouri Powerball (within $1 million)?

According to McDonald's popular 1975 advertising campaign, what are the ingredients in a Big Mac?

Who was the third player picked during Thursday's NFL draft and what team was he drafted by?

And lastly...identify the SONG TITLE based on these lyrics: Back in school, we used to dream about this everyday. Could it really happen, or do dreams just fade away? Then we started singing them, they said it sounded smooth. So we started a group, and here we are, kickin' it just for you.... (no music was played, lyrics were handed out on a sheet and read by the M.C.)

Let me know you're score WITHOUT use of the Internet. Help from spouses is okay. Or just be a wee-nie and don't play along.

Also, if you are following the massage saga and have left me a comment, I appreciate it. There is more to the story, but it's Sunday, and I spent ALL of yesterday being the "house genius" for trivia night, which means that intellectually, I had to perform at a level WAY beyond what I am capable of. My brain is tired. But, I will be back with another in the massage series, this time exploring the viewpoint of Massage Luxe. And not simply from my limited and biased perspective, but the truth as it was revealed to my husband who chained me to the couch and refused to let me get-to-the-bottom of this whole fiasco. He chose, instead, to be a peaceful ambassador, and as it turns out, nuclear power was not needed in this situation.

I mean, you all better THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS that I am not the dictator of a rogue nation.

A true story about consequences.

Sometime this morning, I received a comment to the post I wrote about last week's massage experience. This particular comment was long, and explanatory and full of DRAMA.

Because it was written by the ACTUAL massage therapist (you know, the talker). Who got fired because of it.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Beat me with a piece of rusty barbed wire, tie on some concrete shoes, make me run a half marathon and then ask me to speak in public...and I would still feel BETTER than what's going down today.

Let me tell you all of the things that ran through my mind, at that very moment: guilt that it happened, guilt that I wrote it, fear that someone was mad at me, fear that someone was mad at me and now had access to my blog, defensiveness over what I wrote (because it IS true), confusion as to how it all played out, desire to delete the comment and pretend like it never existed, wanting to fix the whole situation but not knowing what that means exactly.

Now, the massage therapist is pissed, rightfully. Because I publicized our time together with commentary that I WOULD NEVER HAVE SAID IN PERSON. I will put out there, that if you have read my blog for any amount of time, you know WAY more about me than friends and family members that don't read it--because this is the place where I give myself the freedom to voice all of my insecurities and fears and craziness and passion. I believe that I address all of my issues, the good and the bad, in equal measure. But unless you read ALL of it, you are only getting a single snap-shot, taken out of a much larger, complex story.

If I could go back in time, I would tell you to shut the hell up. It would be easier on both of us, I now realize. But let me preface this by saying, that had I kindly asked you to be quiet (I am JOKING about the use of the words shut-the-hell-up, I now feel the need to disclaim my sarcasm), I would have spent the ENTIRE massage feeling like a bitch. Because, if you read my blog, you would know that at heart, I am a people pleaser. I cannot say no to ANYTHING, I hate to hurt feelings, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da. You have NO idea how much I held back during that massage--I LIKE to talk to people! I am not shy! I hate coffee too! I felt rude and second guess-ed myself that entire session. But talking is not what I was in there for--I was looking for 50 minutes of relaxing, sleep-inducing massage. As implied by the wind chime music and soft lighting.

This situation is like my personal nightmare.


Here is also where I tell you that I apologize for every part of the realness that I broadcast--because those failures and judgements and prideful remarks and self esteem issues are, in their truest form, my sinful, dark heart. I hate all of it, because so often, it negatively spins EVERY single thing that I do and say. It makes me bitter and prideful and envious and self-righteous and self-pitying and horrible. I fall short of the way I should treat people, and love them and show compassion EVERY day, and I hate it, without excuse.

I have been publicly writing this blog for a year and a half. I NEVER publicized it at first, because it is so close to my heart. Hell, it IS my heart, every ounce-ful truth of it. But it was found, and people read it and actually seem to relate. Even Massage Luxe follows it, who knew??

Generally, response to my posts are positive and encouraging. But today is tough for me, because it is a reminder that as a writer, some people are going to HATE what I say. That my words will have REAL consequences, my stories will not always be perceived in proper context. I will struggle with this my entire life. Every day, I take a piece of my life and write about it. Sometimes, my posts are as simple as a short moment with my kids. I write about my frustrations with them ALL THE TIME--and yet, very few of you, I would guess, actually believe that I hate my children. I share my downfalls and my selfish, immature thoughts, because I don't think I can tell an accurate story of my life, without sharing my failures.

I honestly don't believe that any of you could see Jesus Christ in me, unless you understand the true, dark sin that is in my heart. He is at work in me, every day. And let me put on the record, that Jesus is NOT A FAN of that massage post (nor the way I spend 95% of my days). But he is going to use it--to convict me, show me what is ugly, help me to ask forgiveness. To be humbled.

My biggest issue with Christian writers is that I often walk away thinking they have the answers, the Holy Spirit, all the keys to daily peace that I am missing. Without understanding the real, practical, sinfulness, I CAN'T see the glory. I can't understand how much Christ overcomes without understanding how dark and lost I am to begin with. But you'd really have to see ALL of me to understand that.

Could I write my posts without cussing? Yes. Could I use less sarcastic language? Yes. Could I be more discerning? Yes. But this verbal diarrhea is the truth, 100%. I could change all of those things, and they would only be for the sake of Christian image, and not for any lasting significance in my heart. I am pretty intentional in my desire not to water this blog down, for the sake of "appearing" Christian. But I would also venture to say that Jesus is working on my tongue and my actions ALL THE TIME.

I'm sure the drama will continue. I'll keep you posted.

It must be Thursday.

According to this picture, it must be Thursday. Also note: this photo is your visual aid to our general theme of whiny-ness this evening, which seemed to revolve around some great injustice involving an umbrella. I don't know, I was studying for my iphone mid-term, so the kids were on their own to figure out how not to kill each other with a blunt, rain-protector.

Thursday afternoons/evenings are tough on my kids. It's the end of the week, and for Big J and L, it's been 4 days without an afternoon nap. They are CLEARLY not ready to drop their naps permanently, as this is their reaction to EVERYTHING come 3:38 on Thursday afternoons.

And FYI, G did manage to get herself to school today. No puke drama, no public eruptions of breakfast. Though, after rehashing the situation with Mike last night, I now have TONS of guilt that she might actually have been sick when I accused her of lying to me. Holy crap, she is only 7 and I feel like I am doing the equivalent of screaming and throwing metal hangers at her (think Mommy Dearest). Poor Joan Crawford probably thought she was teaching her daughter proper closet maintenance...I totally get it.

Today, I got a bit of my creative mojo back. If I can be totally honest, I have felt a bit lost lately---without purpose. I mean, I know my problem is saying "NO" to any and all requests, but I definitely feel that at this very moment, the Lord is painfully teaching me this lesson. Now that I recognize my desire to write something, most other things lose their appeal for me.

So, I have volunteered to help plan a last minute trivia night at G's school. And I excitedly volunteered, but have to admit, that I have slacked off on the amount of work I've actually done for it. I wrote the trivia questions, but aside from that, there is almost ZERO that I have contributed...and trust me when I say, writing the trivia was the easiest and least time consuming part of this whole event. And it's HARD for me not to put all of my effort into something like this...a social event! Attended by most parents of the school! I LOVE that kind of attention! Wait, no I don't!

Anyway. I love G's school and I support it. But I was not called to do this. I wanted to be helpful and nice and not let anyone down. And that is like competing in a popularity contest against Jesus. It is draining the life out of me, and I am BARELY involved in this event. And I start to panic and break out in hives when I think that some of the other committee members probably think I am failing to pull my share of the responsibilities. And then the Holy Spirit bluntly taps on my brain and reminds me that I am going to fail at things ALL THE TIME, so I better deal. Jesus wins, he is the prom king when it comes to helpfulness and encouragement and getting stuff done.

One of the reasons I hate time commitments like this is that it gives me NO TIME to be creative. Except for today, when Jodie of FreshArt photography sent out a request to her blog readers, asking us to photograph/create some kind of shamrock, in honor of a family whose son died in a local St. Louis NICU, one year ago tomorrow.

Crafting? For a family that I can relate to in SO many ways, because I can understand every inch of that kind of loss? It's like God dropped a big dose of purpose, right in my lap.



You know, it would have looked more like a shamrock, had I turned it diagonally. But I sort of like that it more closely resembles a cross from this angle. And THIS is what I miss when I am over committed--the ability to listen to my passions and follow them. And for fun, a felt shamrock ornament....

One more day until the weekend...do something purposeful! Seize the day, friends!

I am almost convinced the iphone is a better parent than me.

It kind of sucks to be mentally out-witted by a seven-year-old.

As would be the case in our household, this week.

Before school on two occasions, G has complained of an upset stomach--going so far as to take herself to the bathroom with fear of impending vomit. And, as she did indeed produce said vomit last Wednesday, we have generally been taking her word on the fact that this is the longest flu in history to produce NO SYMPTOMS besides perpetual nausea that has only provided one set of chunks.

Yesterday, she stayed home until 10 a.m., at which time I was confident that her symptoms had passed.

This morning, she put on such a believable act that HER FATHER attempted to drive her to school, only to weeny-out and take her to his office for an hour and a half. When she was still insisting that puke-a-polooza was just around the corner, I came to retrieve. She was sullen and quiet on the ride home, and I was beginning to think this was Asian genetic sickness, until...

She saw her brothers and sisters and PRESTO! CHANGO!...sickness gone.

SUCKA.

Could she have gone to school at this point? Yes. But we made a decision and mentally I was stuck on keeping her miserable at home. Kind of. I mean, I definitely couldn't make it fun or else G is going to be at serious risk of being diagnosed with cystic fibrosis OR she might end up being home-schooled. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

No.

So we downloaded some worksheets, finished her spelling homework, read some books and downloaded a flash cards app on the iphone. Update! I can make phone calls and even enrich my daughters understanding of arithmetic on this schnazzy little doo-dad. Did you hear that? iphones make children smarter. That should be their tag line.

All this to say that I don't know what G's deal is, but I am going to blame it on the standardized tests being administered this week. It's the only thing that's different. I asked G if she was nervous about them, if they were hard, or confusing, or if the school has been telling her that they will cook her in their giant cafeteria oven if she doesn't score above average in all areas? She claims no, but when I see first grade stew on the menu, if kind of makes me go "hmmm."

And if you are worried that I am psyching her out about these tests? Negative. I didn't even know the tests were happening because I am in la-la land. Though, my intense pressure on her to get the hang of math probably didn't help the situation.

Here are my major issues:

• That G CONVINCINGLY fooled us into keeping her home on two separate days.
• That the alternative to keeping her home was the threat of infecting the entire first grade with Asian genetic sickness.
• That she is so aware of situations and expectations and feelings that she won't tell me what's really at the heart of this whole situation. Not one peep as to what's bothering her.
• That she honestly thinks we craft all day long and feels this is the only life skill she needs to survive. Which is, mostly true.

Most worrisome--that she is hiding her feelings and insecurities and running away from what's really bothering her. I LOVE that home is still her safe zone, but hate that I can't pry this information from her. Also, it's a bit of a struggle to decide between trusting your child, or sending her to school where she could potentially puke in front of her entire class and thereby guarantee my prize as Mutha' of the Year.

So I spent a good part of today trying to figure out what to do. She was obviously staying home, so I wanted to be stern about this NOT happening again; I also wanted to be kind and loving, in the event that something is really bugging her; I wanted to bribe her into talking to me; I wanted to threaten her into talking to me; I wanted to enjoy the time I have with her because it is rare; I wanted her to learn something without me having to teach it; I wanted her to feel unafraid to fail. Those are A LOT of things to want to do in an instant, and mostly I'm pretty sure I confused her with mixed messages.

Crap. Can we just go back to parenting decisions such as fruit vs. vegetable or one nap vs. two? Because at the age of seven, I am a MAJOR FAIL at instilling confidence and trust and vulnerability. Where is the freakin' "Babywise" or "My Kid is Awesome" or "Happy, Happy, Zen Baby" book for that??

Yeah, yeah, I know those books exist. BUT I HAVE NO TIME TO READ ANYTHING BESIDES "FROG & TOAD". If you haven't heard, I have an iphone now, and I am currently undergoing the Bachelor of Arts necessary to work it's basic functions.

Oh!

An iphone app for raising children. Maybe I don't actually have to parent, I just need to write a program that will do it for me. Seriously, I think that would be easier.

Public Service Annoucement: Basic rights for processed meat.

I am on a mission from God. To transform the image of Spam, which in my opinion is the best of the processed/shaped meats. I have spoken of my love of Spam in the past, my fond childhood memories of it, the fact that you can order it at McDonalds if you are in Hawaii.

I've tried selling it on it's merits alone--but apparently the stereotypes against it are too great. Therefore, I am forced to attack the other beloved, artificial fatty meats.

Listen here, Spam haters. What makes you think your packaged hot dogs are so much cooler than SPAM? Is it the jelly that comes out of the can? Yeah, well, it's the same grossness that surrounds a package of processed wieners, if you leave them in your fridge for over a week, so get over it.

Not a hot dog eater, smart ass? Well then, how about bacon? Seriously! I mean, a strip of uncooked bacon is like half fat, straight from the piggy. It even looks muscle-y! Until you cook the crap out of it and then it's just burnt. Burnt, crispy, piggy fat.

Chicken Mcnuggets? Bologna? Fish sticks? McRib sandwich? Pick your processed meat poison, it's ALL questionable. Although, I am beginning to think that if I shape the Spam in a stick-form, bread it and sell it in the freezer section, I would be a ga-zillionaire.

So tonight was breakfast for dinner night at our house, and I made the executive decision to substitute spam for bacon. Because I refuse to raise a household of pressed meat bigots. Watch close for a tutorial.



Slice spam and fry. Oh, and don't forget to turn your cook top vent on...these babies smoke. What you want to end up with, is something that looks like this:

See? It's like a crispy, rectangle of meat. As it might appear in nature. Totally organic.

Who wants to come over for dinner (or breakfast)????

This is me fighting genetics and major insecurity.

Today I got an iphone. And this is what I will look like for the next 12 years, as I attempt to use it. I don't want to brag or anything, but signs point to the *possibility* that I may be able to make a phone call sometime around my children's teenage years.

I completely lack the ability to co-exist with technology. As witnessed by the fact that my laptop is having major schizophrenic issues and I lacked Internet capability ALL DAY LONG. This is a major crisis for me, and yet I have no idea where to even begin rectifying the issue. Cussing and complaining and growing increasingly more agitated and anxious do not appear to be helping.

**Sidenote: I am once again working on a theory that technological fear is a genetic trait. Proven by the fact that my mother is, and has always been afraid of the VCR (and microwave)which was the iphone of the 80's.

So, instead of fixing the computer, it appears that I have gotten myself an iphone, which provides access to the web on a VERY small screen. This buys me at least 3 years (during which time I will go blind from squinting), until I mess it all up and lack the common sense to take it in to the AT&T store. Though, if we are being perfectly honest, when Mike handed me this new do-dad, I opened the box in excitement (over what, I'm not sure because I don't understand any of it), only to INSTANTLY drop it on the floor.

Hubby almost cried.

All this to say, I am intrigued by my new toy. I guess it's a version of excited, because I know I am suppose to pee myself over this thing, but cell phones have never been my forte. I do like being cool, and gadgets do help...but there is some pressure involved, as it is totally UNCOOL if I can't figure out how to answer this thing and my "Hangin' Tough" ringtone blares in a quiet room, without end.

Also. When Mike called to ask me what color case I wanted on my iphone (this is the first I had heard of this), I was totally taken off guard. I chose red. And then I started to panic and sweat. I wasn't planning on investing in technology. I've never even debated an iphone, because honestly, I don't ever use my cell phone! EVER!

Let me also preface this story by saying that we are sharing a family plan with Mike's business partner and his wife. They all have iphones, so I was just joining in on the party. It was time, and it made as much sense as it's ever gonna. Or that's what they're telling me. Secretly, I'm pretty sure a robot is going to eat my brains out tonight.

So the thought of spending money on an iphone sort of freaks me out. I have no problem with spending thousands at Hobby Lobby, $12 at a time, but you know, crafting is practical. Communication, I can do without. That's what messenger pigeons are for.

This phone is a sweet, sweet gesture by my husband. A gift that is completely undeserved, based on my past record with cell phone usage (I *think* he has actually reached me on it 3, maybe 4 times). But I don't really think I am worthy of such a creepy, brain-eating, robot phone.

It got me to thinking about my ability to accept a gift. Because lately, my sweet husband has also been waking the kids every Saturday morning and taking them out of the house until around lunchtime, so that I can sleep, uninterrupted. This is a wonderful, beautiful thing.

And it makes me feel like crap. Almost every time. But I'm too tired to stop it from happening, so I continue to sleep until 10 a.m. and then HATE myself for the whole rest of the weekend. I work extra hard to make up for it, to be worthy of rest. But for me, that gift comes with strings that bind me in all kinds of insecurity. That I'm lazy and selfish and a total sloth.

So I am learning that I don't accept gifts very well. That I feel completely unworthy, and need to prove myself. And at the heart of it, this nagging feeling like I have to sacrifice in order to receive. It's definitely easier for me to accept struggle, than it is for me to embrace a blessing.

I am working on it. But until then, I *gratefully* rage against the iphone for control of my mind.

Let me explain how I paid for the opposite of relaxing.

Things I learned from my Massage technician on Friday afternoon:



She was desperate to get me off of her massage table on time.



She was going to get off of work an hour early. SCORE!



She can only do 3 massages in a row. Company policy.



She was heading to a coffee shop to meet up with some friends and high schoolers for the evening.



It was a total bummer that the coffee shop did not sell alcohol.



She was pretty sure she could get some alcohol on her way to the coffee shop.



She wasn't totally sure she wanted to drink alcohol though, because she had spent her last $9 on a bottle of vodka the night before. The bottle was consumed.



She drank said bottle at a bonfire in the middle of nowhere.



It was fun.


She did not drive to the bonfire. A friend picked her up, so she has no idea where she was.




She was new to her job at Massage Luxe.


She was receiving her first paycheck from Massage Luxe today.


She was excited about that paycheck.



She had been out of massage school for 7 months. One day, she was contemplating a career in sports medicine/sports massage, but she didn't want to put in the time for the training at this point.



She knew the names of all the muscles in the body.



She grew up in Arizona.



Sedona, Arizona is mountainous.



In Sedona, there are some sort of energy circles/wind currents that are totally rad?



She wants to go there.



She drinks Chai tea.



She hates the taste of coffee. But Chai tea rocks.



She drinks a lot of Chai tea.


She doesn't turn down free food. Once she went to her friend's family reunion, because she was told barbecue would be offered.

She thinks this tendency comes from not being raised in a family with a lot of money. Why turn down a free meal, you know? It's like a survival instinct.



The receptionist at Massage Luxe is not so fond of her.



But her last client said that she was her favorite massage therapist EVER.



My hamstrings were really tight.



I should get on the Internet and research stretches for tight hamstrings.



I AM BEING DEAD SERIOUS. 40 minutes of non-stop talking. VERY NON-ZEN like. Anyone ever experience this before???? It has got to be one of the most frustrating and humorous moments in my life. Which I paid for, btw.

But here's what really gets my goat. At this place, you pay a membership fee to get monthly massages...it's all the rage, apparently, as no less than 23 of these places have popped up within a 3 mile radius of our home. My sweet husband signed me up for this service for Valentines Day, with the agreement that we'd keep it for a few months and then drop it. Listen, I LOVE me some massages, but I would rather buy crafting supplies with that kind of cash every month. He went here, verses a normal spa, however, because they are really close to our house and they offer a great rate if you are a member. You cannot just pop into this place for a massage if you don't commit to joining. I take that back. You can get ONE introductory massage at a reduced rate, to help you in your decision to pay them monthly for this service.

Normal, member rate for a 50-minute massage: $48.00.

Now. I'm beginning to notice that there are little signs all over, suggesting tip amounts for massage technicians. Which TOTALLY bugs, as I feel a tip is a bonus for a job well done, and the amount of that bonus should directly correlate to the level at which that service was delivered. I am not a cheap tipper, BUT I hate being told how much I am expected to reward someone, "just because". It drives me NUTS that tips are expected, simply for showing up. If you are counting on that as income, well, you better be awesome. And you better shut the heck up in the 50 minutes of serenity I have been gifted. I don't want to counsel you on the benefits of vodka vs. chai tea--people pay ME for that kind of knowledge.

Then I read the sign a little closer.

Suggested, 15% tip for a 50 minute massage: $9.75.

Okay. I am an English major, but I KNOW there is something wrong with that math. 15% of $48 does not equal almost $10.

Then I read the sign a little closer.

Prices are based on the going street rate of the massage. NOT the discounted membership price.

WHAT kind of crazy, voo-doo propaganda is that???? You can't just walk in off the street and pay for a massage there! And if you did happen to show up for the "introductory" massage, they would charge you $38...less than the membership price. NOWHERE on their list of services is a massage listed for $65.

I am officially pissed. First the INCESSANT talking (to which, I only responded with um-hums and grunts). Then the offensive tip guidelines, which make no sense according to their company policies OR the rules of basic arithmetic. AND the fact that they made me do any kind of mathematical computing DURING MY HOUR OF RELAXATION.

Totally done. Massage Luxe, I am NOT a fan.

Fabulous four.

Four years ago today, someone sliced my stomach open, and pulled a baby out.

It was all kinds of bloody and surreal. And I might have mentioned that because of these very events, I now own a picture of my uterus in a metal pan. Seriously.

And yet, despite the blood and organ exposure, April 15th is one of my favorite days ever. Because this little man was born.

He was worth the indignity of having a small team of people hoist my half-naked, numb body on to an operating table. And the killer scar. And the sleeplessness, and diaper-changing, and nose-picking and tonsil-related irritability.

He's even worth the nightly effort of completely lubricating his body in a substance similar to Vaseline. New routine, per our eczema doc.

Because this kid is awesome, and this year in particular, I have seen such a kind and charismatic boy begin to emerge. When those tonsils came out last May, he became a newer and more wonderful version of himself. Calm and easy-going, when we eliminated the cause of his crying, tantruming and overall discomfort.

He LOVES puzzles. And books and playing with trains. He is still fiercely attached to his Monkey and Lovie. He eats like a horse and has surpassed both Big J and L in weight. It is becoming very apparent that he will be the class clown in years to come. He climbs into my bed every morning. He would watch 12 hours of t.v. a day, if I let him. He is almost able to write his name. He is a great friend. He LOVES to swing. He naps, without complaint, for three hours every day.

All of my children have been amazing miracles. They break me of my worst and most selfish habits in ways that are similarly painful to the bloody, organ-squishing manner of their birth. But this little tyke, in particular, has shown me the value of slowing-the-f down. ENJOYING. Taking it all in, rather than always thinking five steps ahead.

Little J, you are the best kind of surprise....Happy Birthday, kid.

We are the world.

I completely understand how dictatorships are formed, and why they become synonymous with the terms "bloody massacre" and "reign of terror".



Let me tell you. It began with an *innocent* bean spill, cup snatching and general whininess. Offenses that were punished with banishment from the bean bin and a small cleaning spree.



However. When an individual (who shall remain nameless), then decided to soak all of our outdoor toys in a gallon of bubble solution, it was interpreted as an act of rogue terrorism, and major sanctions were imposed.





It is true. Terrorists cannot operate without bubble solution, paint or permanent markers. Though, in rare instances, toilet water has produced isolated, yet successful attacks.


Thus, with the insurgency squashed and sentenced to the dining room corner, relative peace insued. Bribes of television were offered, which added to the atmosphere of positive relations.


Until.


Tribal boundaries were crossed, and territorial disputes exploded with the re-introduction of paint. In a reaction similar to events such as the A-bomb, the assassination of a world leader or the occupation of the promised land, armies were mobilized against the innocent force that smeared orange upon the landscape of a kitty painting. Parties involved DID NOT understand that the paper in question belonged to the nation and not the individual tribes and peace talks were NOT an option as one of the parties made it clear that she would kill her enemies with her teeth if given the opportunity.


No treaty was signed. Rioting insued.


To re-establish order, a national superpower seized control and governed the stubborn, native peoples. Attempts at democracy and compromise for the greater good were met with severe resistance, thereby leaving the superpower with no choice but to rule with an iron fist and a zero-tolerance policy. Because the natives were CRAZY.


The superpower really just needed some time to deal with it's own issues. Because it is overcommitted to every, single global issue. Because it does not know how to say no. The superpower really just wanted to ignore the outbreak of the civil war, but it had a vested interest in making sure no blood stained it's couches. And also, if a major death toll was recorded, somehow, blame would be placed upon superpower which was minding its own business in the first place.

On a side note, the superpower *almost* launched a defensive attack when an allied nation noted that a certain M&M jar was suspiciously low. Yes, the superpower is unable to manage it's own national health crisis' because the crazy tribal people cannot get their act together and be trusted to govern themselves without supervision for more than 5 frickin' minutes.


April 14th. The day my children barely escaped massacre by an over-caffeinated superpower.

If I didn't run a half marathon yesterday, I might think I was dying.

Following yesterday's half-marathon, I feel *great*. Thanks for asking!



It's as if I didn't run for over two hours yesterday, so long as I operate under a few simple rules:



There is no lifting of my feet more than .25 inches off the ground. Stairs are OUT of the question, going upward or downward.



Walking is fine, as I can shuffle my heavy, fat feet without actually lifting them. Hallelujah!



No bending of the knee joints, as this engages the quad muscle. Bad, bad idea.



If I ignore rule #3 and proceed to sitting position, my back MUST NOT come into contact with a chair. Remember that feeling I described yesterday, similar to bruising that might accompany a violent beating? Still there, times 1,000. Only now, my upper back is in on that action.

If I need to raise myself up from sitting position, I must have a steady support from which I can hoist all of my body weight upward. Four year olds are not suitable for this task.


At one point this afternoon, I attempted to lower myself to the floor, in the hopes of helping Little J with a puzzle he was working on. Somehow, I managed to contort myself into the downward-facing-dog position, and any further movement looked to be unlikely. He *almost* had to call 911. Which would be interesting, as I'm not sure he could properly locate a 9 or a 1 on a telephone. Take it back a step. I'm not sure he could find the telephone. Instead, I buckled my arms and let my dead weight fall to the floor, straight on to my bruised knee (hip-hop injury). Yee-ouch.

Last night's sleep was fine, so long as I didn't move and my blankets did not touch my back. Totally restful.

Also, the foot feels terrible. But I attribute this to the fact that none of my leg muscles are working properly, hence, each step I take comes down upon thy foot with the pounding of an ungraceful elephant. Kind of like drooling after dental work, I have ZERO control of my legs. Only, at this point, drooling seems glamorous, not as embarrassing and definitely less painful.



Okay, okay. Hip hop nite.



So, a friend of ours coordinated a group hip-hop lesson at a dance studio in St. Louis. Being that this would not be funny or entertaining unless we were dressed to theme, we decided to go for it. SO many ways that you could take it. MC Hammer style, Run DMC, Lil' Kim, old school break dancin'.



In the end, I settled upon a little number inspired by the original Fast-n-Furious. I feel like you could have seen my outfit out there on the streets.



When I asked Mike what his wardrobe plans were, he looked at me and decided to follow suit. White tank, short jean-shorts, Miller Time hat, knee socks, hair. When this form of female hip-hop is translated for a male, he becomes Joe Dirt. Disturbingly reminiscent of the movie "Deliverance" and definitely suggestive of crystal meth.




Perhaps you cannot tell, but my eye make-up was THICK. All borrowed from my seven-year-old daughter's collection. Which is also very disturbing.

Sporting paraphernalia seemed to be the way to go. Hats/head coverings were a must. There was one velour track suit in kermit-the-frog green and it was freakin' sweet. If I could have planned a pregnancy 6 months ago, it would have been perfect.

The lesson was an hour and a half...and after the warm-up, it was APPARENT that we were actually paying for a workout (versus just acting ridiculous for 90 minutes). For those of you who haven't tried it, hip hop is like 98% lunging and squats. Oh, and there was a knee-slide move which will leave scars. When I am 65, I will definitely blame my knee replacement surgery on this very evening.

It was so AWESOME! Back in the day, I was known to rock a theme party, and I'm glad to say...I've still got it. I HIGHLY suggest this to anyone who needs a solid 2-3 hours of hearty laughter.

Peace out.

Victory makes me feel like I am the victim of a violent crime.

Fro-Yo. Like saying howdy to a puffy hair-do.

Blah-ha-ha-ha! I am delirious and that cracks me up. But really, it was low-fat yogurt that I consumed in such quantities that it produced a food baby. On top of the large cheeseburger. And fries. Oh, the fries. Also, there was a large pretzel with some cheese sauce, if I am being totally honest.

Granted. I did run 13.1 miles today. But it is something special when you can burn those kinds of calories and still manage to go up two pants sizes in a span of 8 hours.

I haven't said much about the half marathon, because I am an idiot. As of two weeks ago, I wasn't sure I could run it, as it appears that my stress fracture is back to some extent. Here is where I will tell you that a stress fracture doesn't equal excruciating pain...more of an irritating dull ache. It is VERY easy to disguise, mostly because you can just put pressure on different parts of the foot and it's barely noticeable. Running, however, is a different story...you can't rotate your foot, or EVERYTHING else hurts.

Still, it didn't hurt bad...but I wasn't sure I could do it for 13 miles.

Idiot that I am, I rested the foot for 2 full weeks. NO running. All so that I could blow it out all at once, during the half. Not really. While I was worried I'd be limping/crawling to the finish line, it really never bothered me. Possibly because every other inch of my body hurt SO bad that the foot was no big thang. And thankfully, it never got worse. Just the same dullish-ache, for two hours and 17 minutes.

Here is also where I will tell you that St. Louis is not a flat city. Holy hell, is it hilly. I remembered that from last year, but they switched some things up, and I assumed that would be better--but was sadly mistaken as this was WORSE. Hill, after hill, after hill. And who ever thought it was a great idea to END with the freaking a-hole of all hills, well, that was pure torture of the kind that comes straight from the ass of Satan. Thankfully, Mike had finished before me and had enough time for a facial before setting up to see me finish, and he happened to park himself at the exact spot where I actually saw the holy spirit coming to retrieve my soul and carry me to heaven. Right in the middle of the damn hill. And goodie, he had a camera. So if you want to see what death looks like moving at the pace of a large, wet turtle with emphysema...I will share that little gem later this week.

Now. I did train for this thing...it was my last 11.5 mile run that brought on the foot pain, but the HILLS! Never before have my muscles spasmed, but around mile 11 (hill #78), I honestly felt my hamstrings trying to detach from my legs and exit out my throat. NOT kidding. It was excruciating and I wanted to die. Scratch that, I wanted to eat a large cheese-dip-pretzel, a cheeseburger, french fries and yogurt that sounds like friendly hair.

At the moment--my legs are jello and I have counted at least 15 new stretch marks (none of this is surprising). My most unexpected ailment? Apparently someone beat me to a pulp with a baseball bat, focusing mainly on the lower back area? No bruise (though it feels like I am purple from the waist down), but oddly, I feel as if I have been slipped a roofie before becoming the victim of gang violence. It is totally possible that this is an unfortunate side-effect from Friday's hip-hop dance lesson, as I could certainly see how booty-shakin' would produce this kind of pain. Impossible to know for sure.

I know I owe you pictures of the awesomeness that was hip-hop night. Tomorrow, I promise. Right now, it would entail me standing and moving, and just the though of both those things makes me want to take amazing amounts of pain killers. Trust me, it is totally worth the wait.

If, however, you don't hear from me in the next 24 hours, send help. It's possible that I will be unable to care for myself, or my children tomorrow. And if I can't get them out the door to school, then I really will die.

Yo Dee-jay, let's kick it.

I bought my new favorite piece of clothing today. And yes, it came with a smirk. It also comes with a WHOLE ensemble to match, but I am unprepared to reveal it at this time. Trust me when I say, that you are not yet ready for this jelly.

I will give you the full story with pictures later this weekend--but for the moment it is important that you know Mike and I are attending an event tomorrow night in which hip-hop clothing is strongly encouraged. I was going to make it work via my old clothes bins, but decided that my pre-children wardrobe tended to favor Cotton-Eyed-Joe over Lil' Kim. And while I did add a bandanna-patterned tube top to the mix, that seemed to heavily suggest a slutty-farmer theme, minus a milking bucket. Which is fine and all, I ain't hatin' on loose farm hands, but it's a commonly known fact that slutty farmers can't dance.

Enter Wal-Mart. Holy mother-load.

I was an hour and a half's worth of giddy and excited just shopping the possibilities. And in the end, I had to let go of 4-full-outfits worth of hip-hop. It was somewhat heartbreaking, and made me wish that my life included regular dance-offs on the Jersey Shore, to the soundtrack of Ice-T and Eminem. Because the outfit takes all of my min-van whiteness and makes me LEGIT.

Did you think I was going to segway into an MC Hammer reference just then? Thought about it, but decided my mojo is more Fast-n-Furious. Though, a pair of those baggy, Chinese-typewriter pants and a little vest would be SWEET (but *maybe* obscene) for the purposes of this game. But if I could tease my hair upright and sculpt it into a flat-top formation I would be the baddest mutha you have EVER seen. Or possibly just Vanilla Ice.

In case you missed it, here's a close-up of my new favorite hat. A BOTTLE OPENER UNDER THE LID! I almost peed my pants right then and there. It's possible that this hat is the EXACT intersection of hip-hop and NASCAR. Fashion's Switzerland, if you will--a piece that exists in neutrality, choosing not to take sides.


And in case you thought they were lying? They ain't. Them Miller people are pretty legit, too.

Coincidentally. Wal-Mart has many options favoring the slutty-farmer theme, if that's what you're into. And NASCAR in abundance. They are light on the MC Hammer garb, but my guess is that if you can find a Wal-Mart in 1990, you are money.

Word to your mom.

I am telling you that the universe is conspiring to irritate me.

Ugh. This kid is a walking allergy attack. He awakens happy and normal, and by noon he is a full-blown rash with zombie eyes. Apparently, steroid cream and whatever-prescription- medicine-is-in-our-cabinet is not doing the trick. To the allergist we go, which makes me a little nervous, as you might recall that I had to debate with our last allergist as to whether or not I was just crazy and forcing skin tests upon my child for no good reason.

Crazy? Yes. No one doubts that.

But I am beginning to think the kid is allergic to air, and I want a test done for that.

Also. I would like to be justified in my crazy, as the last allergist did not test Little J for sensitivity to pollens. So, while Little J did indeed test negative for eggs and dairy and nuts and shellfish, I do believe that he is ALLERGIC to pollen. Reference photo above. Oh, and the fact that the most accurate words I could use to describe him are "bumpy" and "red".


And then, this:



I swear, my husband does this just to irritate me. Do you see it. DO YOU SEE IT??? He paired stripes with a small flower print. STRIPES WITH A SMALL FLOWER PRINT! It makes me crazy. CRAZY! Like Chinese water torture or pulling my fingernails out one at a time.

I like matchey-matchey. And hairbows. And pattern control. I am totally The Gap's target audience. Put it in Crewcuts (and give me a million dollars) and I will buy it.

Pair blue polka dots and pink polka dots (yesterday's selection) and I will cry. And maybe vomit. And definitely whine.

Just trying to prove a point. I AM insane.

The Easter Bunny thought he was all hot-shit when he stuffed the kids eggs with stickers. Purchased in an extra large tub, intended to last until the end of time. And now, this is what I find everyday. Paper bits, covering every inch of my floors.

I *think* I would rather have my kids teeth rot from sugar intake than have to sweep my floors twice a day, every day, throughout eternity. I mean, you can always buy fake teeth (and they look NICE!). I can't just create little elves who will sweep my floors every other hour.

Oh wait. Maybe that's what kids are for?

And then. Today at lunch, I opened the yogurt to find a leaf bit? I don't even know who to blame for taking my yogurt outside during a windstorm. But its rude to put the lawn clippings in the dairy.

Leaf bit discarded, the yogurt was then blended with fruit for a smoothie. No one died (unlike the stripes/small floral debacle).

We survived today. Some of us itchy and red, others mismatched, many with an unexpected dose of leafy fiber. Happy Wednesday!

Fifty.

So, my mom is the oldest of nine kids. Which (unless you are a Duggar) is basically unheard of in today's day and age, when we have every distraction known to man available to babysit at a moments notice. I can't even imagine trying to handle it without television and fancy bubble-blowing contraptions and baby monitors and Internet access.

It kind of sounds terrible, but then again, there was a farm involved, which I think meant that you could send your kids out into the great big world with sticks and rocks and feel *fairly* confident that they would not get hit by the two cars that would pass by on the only road that existed for miles.

That is what you call gambling, Wisconsin prairie edition.

So today, I figured out that my mom's youngest brother was only 16 when I was born. That's pretty young, especially since I always considered him a "grown-up". Kind of. He was the uncle that dressed up in STRANGE clothing at weddings and made a huge scene, pretending to be a long-lost embarrassing relative of the bride/groom. I didn't *really* understand, because at the age of 10 I still considered it somewhat cool that he would attend a wedding in fuzzy, bear claw slippers.

It sounded about as awesome as perms and teasing my hair straight upward for an hour straight every morning. Hideous now, WAY cool then.

And as I grew up in Hawaii, and saw Tim, maybe once a year, I didn't know a ton about him, aside from his strange social habits at weddings. That's the thing about being a kid around "grown-ups" (kind of), you're more of an observer of their life than a trusted peer with whom they share bar stories and topics inappropriate for immature ears.

But somewhere along the line, I grew up and began this fun little blog. Where I air all kinds of life truths and inappropriateness. Which, I believe is the GENIUS of the blog, because instantly, you 5 readers like me BECAUSE I tell you that I almost kill my children at least 12 times per day (intentionally and unintentionally) and I confess in all seriousness that Butler University is responsible for me eating ALL of my kids Easter candy (all of it. Finished today.). Let's face it. If you didn't know me in real life and I came up to you and just exploded with that kind of verbal diarrhea, you would think I was a F-R-E-A-K. And you might call the police.

But for some reason, on the Internet, that kind of thing is endearing. Huh. This world wide web opens up a whole new marketing platform for people who abuse animals.

And guess who reads this here blog? My long, lost Uncle Tim! Okay, he wasn't really lost. He just lives in Wisconsin. Same thing?

But he laughs along with me, and sends me little emails to tell me so. Which, by the way, is totally the point. If you don't understand sarcasm, well, you probably hate this blog. And I find it infinitely fascinating that BLOGGER is the means by which we are breaking the distance/age gap.

Young and old unite.

And I call myself "young" because I have been reading all the hype about Brad Stevens (the Butler coach), and if the media can fixate on the fact that he is so youthful, and he happens to be my age, well, I'm going to run with it. Reporters can't be wrong, that's my motto.

And I call my Uncle Tim old, well...because he is 50 TODAY. Dude, that is like so totally ancient.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Tim!

I wish I was less of a nervous eater, and more of a nervous puker.

Pictured above: today's stab at recreating the Alpha Phi sheet sign of old. Pictured below: one of hundreds of sheet signs that hung at 202 E. Hanna. I don't even understand what it means, probably because I tuned out at house meeting or I was drunk when it was announced.



Ohmygod. I have been on the verge of hysterics all day long and the Butler game is more than 5 hours away. We have invited friends over, which is probably a big mistake, as now there will be an audience to my emotional collapse. And I say that whether they win or lose, because it doesn't appear that my psyche can take it, either way.

Also. Athletic stress disorder (as I call it) can be blamed for my desire to eat jelly beans and robin's eggs ALL DAY LONG. I'm so glad I finally have a medical diagnosis for my binge eating. It's like finding out your pregnant and therefore having a legit reason for gaining 60 pounds--though now, it appears that my inner-sports psychopath is addicted to chocolate and quarter-pounders. And probably alcohol.

In honor of the Bulldogs, today's post is going to be dedicated to all things blue...which, coincidentally, happens to be everything that I've worked on in the past week. Beginning with the boy's Easter ties, which I made from this pattern on the The Purl Bee (click here for link). Ties are the EASIEST project I have ever taken on, and as almost all of it is done by hand, it's a great project if you are without a sewing machine. Even G sported one for Easter...

Also, one of Mike's cousins emailed me last week for a pillowcase dress--and as it had been a while since I've made one, it was a fun project to jump back into. It also went smoothly, which has created in me a desire to make 237 more. On a serious note, ONE YEAR after I first announced the idea, I think I am going to have a girl's night here at our place, for anyone who wants to make one of these. Bring some fabric and a machine (if you have it...NOT a necessity) and we'll drink some wine and work with fast moving needles. Sound fun and kind of dangerous-exciting? Email me or comment if you are in St. Louis and interested. I'm tentatively planning for Thursday, May 13th.

Okay. Before I sign off on my last post before the "big game" (I mean, doesn't my drama make it sound like Jesus is suiting up to play some hoops tonight?), I have one last thought. Particularly as Butler is about to take on the giant of college basketball, Duke. Everyone expected Duke to be in this position, no one really anticipated that Butler would be here. And that Duke coach with the last name that is pronounced with phantom "s" and "f" sounds? Well, his team is generally hated by lots of people, because they are consistently one of the best teams in college basketball, and that is frustrating to lots of other fans, apparently. So, it kind of comes down to the newbie taking on the powerhouse.

Only, because of this particular season Brad Stevens is totally in the spotlight. And he's being noticed and applauded. And he's 33 and leading a team that no one saw coming. Which won't be the case the next time he coaches a team to the championship game--next time, it will come with a lot of expectation and comparison. There is certainly a lot of pressure on tonight's game, but, as I peruse all of the commentaries out there (seriously, WHO have I become??), it's quite obvious that no one really knows much about Coach Stevens, because he hasn't been around long enough--and so, by default, he is known as the young, calm coach leading an unlikely team into the Championship game against a legendary program. And there is something SO incredible about that, because it won't ever be that story for him again. Because the college basketball world will EXPECT this kind of performance again, the next time. And in my opinion, expectations take all the sweetness and surprise out of the most amazing things.

So, to my friend Tracy and her husband the Coach--here's celebrating the FIRST of many incredible trips to this very spot. And all of the new-ness and nervousness and pride that comes with getting here!!! I am amazed by the grace and the sweetness that you are handling this with and I am so very excited for you!

GO BUTLER!!!

I am celebrating the risen Christ with serious calorie intake.

Happy Easter, Blog-World!!

Christ is risen! And though jelly beans are making a serious play for my soul, I am comforted to know that they DO NOT possess the ability to rise from the dead and sit at the right hand of God.

It has been an AMAZING weather week around here...and as such, I have taken a ga-zillion pictures. In an effort to spare you an hour or two, I've boiled them down to a couple of collages:

Beginning in the top left and workin' clockwise: A froggy-find during our egg hunt; our dyed eggs; egg salad sandwiches for the kid's lunch (Mike and I would rather gag and vomit than eat hard-boiled eggs); G and her new bubble blower; individual monkey breads, and idea I found at this here blog (link here); a new crop of Crocs from the Easter bunny.

Second verse, same as the first: an Easter basket (our theme: practical items); L on our egg hunt; fancy milk in a wine glass (Jesus drank wine, get off my back); sponge painted bunny art; egg-shell mosaic (saving egg shell received ENORMOUS eye rolls from Mike); It just ain't Easter without 9 cousins in a dune-buggy; Friday's playdate activity, a "Peep" bouquet; Big J's monogrammed tie.

It has been a CRAZY weekend of egg hunting and basketball...and to those of you who have faithfully rooted for Butler on my behalf, I thank you greatly because THEY ARE PLAYING FOR THE FREAKING CHAMPIONSHIP ON MONDAY. I can barely think about it without wanting to cry, which means that my insanity has effected my chemical balance and I could probably use some sort of counseling and drug-therapy. Or maybe just drugs.

Also testifying to the fact that I might be a *little* off: I decided it was a good idea for the kids to dye eggs during the last 10 minutes of the Butler/Michigan State game. Hmmm. It is so fun when mommy keeps enforcing quietness and then scaring the crap out of you with psycho fan yelling. It is a pure miracle that my furniture isn't tie-dyed and my children aren't calling the Department of Family Services all on their own. This is the benefit to not teaching them to use the phone, however, should a child abductor show up on our door step, I am screwed.

And the crowning jewel of a perfect day...Easter dinner at Mongolian Barbecue. Because nothing says "Jesus RULES" like prawns floating in some sort of weird liquid.

Totally kidding. Mike and I opted for "nontraditional" Easter fare--and we went with an Asian theme that the kids LOVED. We were seriously worried that Little J's stomach might explode, he ate so many bowls of stir fry. Oh! And everyone besides Big J downed their meal with chopsticks!!!!! Which means that, in spite of their non-Asian looks, G and Little J do in fact possess Okinawan genes...in their fingers.



I hope that all of you out there had a moment today to see something beautiful in an imperfect world. I believe that Easter is all about celebrating, hope, and life and incredible grace that came when Jesus was raised from the dead--but the challenge is to live KNOWING that Easter is everyday, not just once a year on a Sunday.

As I have been tossing with all kinds of thought about Christ's sacrifice and what that means in my everyday life, I have had several challenges put on my heart...which I look forward to sharing in the weeks to come. All intended to break me of some bad habits, which should be intriguing and frightening for any of you reading, as I'm thinking it will be similar to a 50-year chain smoker quitting cigarettes cold turkey.

Until all that fun-ness, here's wishing you a fantastic Easter...

Understanding what's "good" about Friday.

Clearly, it is easier to count our blessings when we have suffered, and survived.

I will forever look at my twins and THANK GOD that they are alive, that they can walk, that they can speak, that they are entering kindergarten without any special needs. Not that they don't test the upper limits of my patience (x2), but that they even exist to drive me crazy can often humble me in a minute.

Because I begged God to give them the opportunity to bug the crap out of me on a daily basis. The suffering of watching my sick and dying children changed me. My perspective, my attitude, my priorities, my expectations. I count blessings in my healthy children that I would have taken for granted my entire life.

And centuries ago, on the day we celebrate as Good Friday, the Son of God walked the earth and suffered a terrible, painful, bloody, death. Done, so that we might count our blessings and understand glory--when compared to the brutal punishment taken on our behalf. To change our perspective, our attitudes, our priorities, our expectations.

The grace of God, his unending love, his protection over my family, my beautiful children, the home we live in, the life we love--amazing and beautiful and indescribable when compared to the tragedy of the cross.

That single, dark day brings glory. And because of it, we count our blessings.

For we are saved.